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Elena

I sit in my father's office, a bundle of nerves, though I’m trying to remain composed.

The leather chair creaks as I shift, betraying my restlessness.

I've rehearsed what I'll say about each player's progress, careful words that reveal just enough without breaching confidentiality.

But when it comes to Nate, every prepared sentence feels like a lie, coated in the sticky residue of what we've done.

What I've allowed to happen. What I desperately want to happen again.

The door swings open, and Dad strides in with his usual purpose. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ellie." The nickname only emerges when we're alone, a rare acknowledgment that I'm his daughter first, team psychologist second.

"No problem. I was just reviewing my notes." I tap my tablet, the screen displaying session summaries. Professional. Ethical. Everything I haven't been lately.

He settles behind his desk, expression shifting to Coach mode. "So, how are the sessions going? Any concerns I should know about?"

"Overall, the team's responding well." I slide into my clinical voice, grateful for the comfortable rhythm of professional conversation. "Most players are engaged, taking the exercises seriously."

"And Barnesy?"

I wince imperceptibly at Nate's name. Does Dad notice the slight flush crawling up my neck? The way my fingers tighten around my tablet? "He's... making progress."

Dad leans forward, elbows on his desk. "Define progress."

I swallow, choosing my words carefully. "He's opening up about his past. Making connections between his childhood experiences and his current behavior patterns.

" Not a lie—Nate had revealed more than I expected in our last session, vulnerability replacing his usual swagger in moments that felt almost painfully intimate. "He's demonstrating self-awareness."

"Self-awareness doesn't mean shit if it doesn't translate to behavior change." Dad's expression hardens. "I need him focused, controlled. No more stupid penalties. No more locker room conflicts."

"That takes time." I'm surprised by my defensive tone. "He's addressing some deep-seated issues."

"We don't have time, Elena." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "We need him at his best. That hat trick last week? That's the player I need him to be. Not the hothead who's been in and out of the penalty box his whole career."

I nod, trying to look neutral. "It looks like his performance has improved recently."

"Just make sure he stays that way." Dad stands, pacing behind his desk. "Barnesy can be manipulative, you know. Charm is his superpower. Gets him out of trouble almost as often as he gets into it."

My throat tightens. Is that what Nate's doing with me? Using charm to manipulate his way through therapy, through my defenses, between my legs? "I'm aware of his reputation."

"Good." Dad nods sharply. "Because I've seen it happen. Trainers, assistant coaches, even refs—they all start out setting clear expectations with him, then suddenly they're making exceptions, looking the other way."

Each word feels like a personal accusation. I force myself to maintain eye contact, keep my breathing even. "I understand my role, Dad. I'm not going soft on him."

The irony of my words burns like acid. I've gone way beyond soft. I've crossed every professional boundary that exists. I've risked my career, my reputation, and my relationship with my father for stolen moments with a man who might be playing me like he plays everyone else.

"I hope not." His voice softens slightly. "I know you're good at what you do, Ellie. That's why I wanted you on the team. But Barnesy..." He shakes his head. "He's got a history of leaving wreckage behind him."

I want to defend Nate, to tell my father about the vulnerability I've glimpsed beneath the arrogance. About the genuine insight he showed in our last session. But sharing any of that would reveal too much, betray both my professional ethics and my personal secrets.

"I'm handling it," I say instead, grateful that my voice sounds steady. "He's responding to the techniques I'm using."

Dad sits back down, studying me. "Good. We need him at his best." He flips open a folder on his desk. "Now, what about Wilson? Still dealing with performance anxiety?"

The conversation shifts to other players, and I find myself responding automatically, grateful for the change of subject. But my mind keeps circling back to Nate, to my father's warnings, to the storm of emotions I can't seem to control.

Fifteen minutes later, as we wrap up, Dad says, "By the way, I'd like you to run a team bonding session in the next few days. Something to build cohesion."

"What did you have in mind?"

He looks up from his notes. "Something informal enough that they don't feel like they're in therapy. We’ve done these before and the guys complained."

"Sure," I nod, already mentally sorting through possible exercises. "Not a problem. I can design something quickly."

"Perfect." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. "And Elena?"

"Yes?"

"Remember what I said about Barnesy. He's playing well right now, and we need that to continue. Whatever you're doing in those sessions, it's working. Just..." He pauses, searching for words. "Don't let him charm you into getting out of doing the work."

Too late, I think, as I force a smile. "I won't."

Walking back to my office, I feel the weight of what I'm risking settle more heavily on my shoulders. Every step feels like moving through molasses, resistance pushing against my progress. My father's warning echoes in my mind: "He's got a history of leaving wreckage behind him."

Is that what I'll be? Another piece of wreckage in Nate Barnes' wake?

The worst part is that even knowing the danger, even hearing my father's warnings, even understanding exactly what I stand to lose—I still want him.

Not just physically, though god knows that pull is strong.

I want to hear more about his childhood, understand the man behind the reputation, be the person he trusts enough to break through his walls.

In my office, I close the door and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. My gaze falls on my desk—the memory of his hands, his mouth, his body pressing down on me floods back with such force that I have to close my eyes against it.

This has to stop. I can't keep lying to my father, betraying his trust, risking everything I've worked for.

I arrange chairs in a circle while my mind races.

Twenty-three hockey players will file in here any minute, and I need to be poised, professional, and a member of the team who deserves respect.

Not the woman who's breaking every ethical rule in the book by sleeping with one of my clients.

I check my watch. Ten minutes until the team bonding session starts.

Ten minutes to bury my feelings for Nate so deeply that no one will see them.

The conference room door swings open, and players begin to file in. Daniels first, always punctual, followed by the defense pairs who move like synchronized units even off the ice. I smile, greeting each by name, maintaining eye contact.

Nate eventually strolls in last, as usual. His eyes lock onto mine for a fraction too long. His mouth quirks up at one corner. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"Good afternoon, everyone." My voice comes out clear and steady as everyone finds a seat. "Today we're focusing on trust and communication—two foundations of effective teamwork."

I explain the exercise: players paired up, one blindfolded, navigating an obstacle course using only their partner's verbal instructions. Simple but effective for highlighting communication styles under pressure.

"Any questions before we begin?" I scan the room.

"Yeah." Nate leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Who gets paired with you, Doc?"

Several players chuckle. I keep my expression neutral. "I'll be observing, not participating."

"That's too bad." He drops his chair back to all fours with a thud. "I bet you give great... instructions."

The innuendo isn't subtle. I blush involuntarily. A few players shift uncomfortably while others try to hide their laughter. I realize far too late that having an exercise involving blindfolds was really stupid, given that Nate blindfolded me the first night we were together. What was I thinking?

"Let's stay focused." I move to distribute blindfolds. "I've already assigned pairs based on who you work with least on the ice."

The exercise begins, and for twenty minutes, the room fills with shouts, laughter, and occasional cursing as players navigate around chairs, bags, and other obstacles. I circulate, notebook in hand, offering observations and suggestions.

When I approach Nate and his partner—a rookie defenseman who looks terrified to be paired with him—Nate dramatically oversteers the blindfolded player.

"Left. No, your other left. Now three baby steps forward. Wait, that's too many!"

The rookie stumbles into a chair.

"That's not helpful communication," I say quietly.

Nate grins. "Not everything needs to be so serious, Doc. You should try loosening up a little."

The comment lands like a slap. Is that how he sees me? Uptight, rigid, someone who needs to "loosen up"?

"Effective communication builds trust," I reply, keeping my voice even. "And trust builds team cohesion."

"You know what else builds cohesion?" He steps closer, voice lowered so only I can hear. "Having some fun once in a while."

Our eyes lock. The air between us feels charged. I step back, breaking the connection.

"Time to switch roles," I announce to the room, turning away from him.

The rest of the session crawls by. I maintain my composure, but inside I'm seething. Every time Nate speaks, every time he laughs too loudly or makes a joke, my anger rises another notch.